


Serpent's Tooth

by Dori



Category: Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: The Robbery, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-08-03
Updated: 1997-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dori/pseuds/Dori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay doesn't deal well with betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serpent's Tooth

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing with them, I'll put them back when I'm done. (Okay, Clay's mine. MINE. Just ask him.)
> 
> This takes place after THE ROBBERY.

"I was wonderin' if you'd have the nerve to come."

Clay Mosby's voice was soft, but it nevertheless made Florie flinch. He'd been sitting in the dark, in the empty Ambrosia Club, a bottle on the table in front of him. It wasn't from his regular private stash, either, it was from the case he kept hidden in the back of his armoire, the stuff that cost ten dollars a bottle at least, and it was three quarters empty. He was holding a full glass, twirling it between his fingers and staring down into it as though there might be something important at the bottom of it.

Florie almost turned around right then, summons or no, because he'd obviously been drinking for quite some time, and Clay Mosby was dangerous when he'd had that much to drink. Not that he'd show any obvious signs of being drunk. He never stumbled, he never slurred his words, but there was a certain coldness that came to his eyes and a stinging precision to his speech that could cut the heart right out of you if you got in his way. And he had that coldness in his eye now.

It hadn't been a case of having the nerve to come; he'd sent for her, and it was either come on her own or be carried by one of Mosby's big dumb flunkies. Florie had no intention of being hauled through the streets like a sack of meal, so she'd come on her own. The big dumb flunky had followed, of course, but that was only what she expected.

"I've been waitin' for you." Clay's voice turned cold.

Florie took a step backward, but it was already too late. It had been too late yesterday when Clay opened her door and found Newt Call in her bed.

He set the glass down and reached forward to turn up the kerosene lamp sitting next to the whiskey bottle, then pushed himself out of the chair carefully. Florie gasped when he looked up at her and she saw his face, saw raw pain behind the coldness in his eyes. It was worse than the moment yesterday when he'd burst through the door and seen her draped over Newt Call, when the pain of her betrayal had blazed out of him and seared her heart. But the next second the cold mask slipped back into place. As it had yesterday.

"Clay," she began, but he smiled and stopped her with a wave of his hand.

"I have to give you credit," he said, still smiling that terrible smile, "I'm sure it wasn't an easy decision."

"Clay, it was business," she said, and watched his eyes go from cold to dead.

"Business," he said, coming toward her. The smile was gone now, and Florie knew that whatever was between Clay and Call was stronger than any feeling he might have had for her, that there was no hope of forgiveness, no hope of reconciliation, and she closed her eyes against the wash of sadness the realization brought with it. It surprised her a little; she'd known better than to hope for forgiveness.

She felt his fingers brush her cheek, and for an instant hope welled again.

Until his hand clenched in the hair at her nape, pulling it cruelly tight and tilting her head backwards.

"Business," he repeated, his eyes narrowed and one corner of his mouth twisted upward in a bitter curl. "You spend all day in bed with Newt Call, knowin' how I feel about the son of a bitch, and that's just business?"

"Yes," Florie said, struggling to keep her voice calm. It would be a mistake to let him know how frightened she was. "I can't turn away customers, you know that, Clay. A girl's got to make a living." She looked him right in the eye, holding his gaze defiantly, while her heart pounded in her throat.

His fingers tightened in her hair; he snarled silently and gave her head a small shake. "Don't give me that. You can pick and choose your customers if you want. So why didn't you send Call to one of the other girls?"

"He didn't want one of the other girls." That was certainly true enough, though it wasn't the entire truth. But somehow Florie doubted that Clay would take it well if she told him that she'd been curious to know if Call was really as good in bed as the other girls said.

"No," Clay growled. "You did it to spite me. It was because I wouldn't give you back that stagecoach ticket, wasn't it? Because I wouldn't let you leave town."

Florie jerked her head, trying to loosen his grip, but he forced her to be still. "Was that it?" he said, shaking her again, "Hmm? You wanted to get back at me for keepin' that ticket?"

"Yes," she hissed at him. It was the truth, too, but again, not the entire truth. There had been more to it than just the ticket.

He'd ignored her when she asked for the ticket back, had dismissed it as though he couldn't believe she was serious. But she was. It hurt that he didn't believe she hadn't known what Rutman and Russell were really up to. It hurt worse that he thought her as capable of murder as Rutman. But what hurt worst of all was that, for the first time in their association, he had thrown her profession up to her. That was always one of the unspoken rules of their arrangement--he never treated her like a whore, and she kept her visits to him as much of a secret as possible. And though he stopped himself from saying the word "whore," it hung in the air between them, making her so furious she taunted him with it, daring him to say it. When he wouldn't, she snatched up his letter opener and stabbed him with it.

And then she let him persuade her that he'd only been testing her, even though she knew it was a lie. She couldn't let go of the tiny hope she harbored in her most secret heart that one day Clay would realize how good she could be for him and make an honest woman of her.

She knew it was a foolish hope. And it wasn't as though it was unheard of for a whore to marry--she'd had many friends in various whorehouses from New Orleans to Montana territory who'd married respectable men, and she fully expected to find one for herself someday, when her looks started to fade. Of all her customers, Clay was the only one who'd ever made her feel that it mattered to him that she was the one in his bed, and she hadn't been able to keep from hoping, just a little, that he'd be the one. But one unspoken word had opened her eyes. He would never consider marrying someone beneath his station. After that, though she did her best not to let him see it, their relationship changed.

Oh, he'd behaved the same to her after she recovered from the Meti's beating as he had before it, as though he'd forgotten all about the whole sorry incident, but he hadn't, and she knew it. And she hadn't been able to pretend any more that he didn't think of her as a whore. That one unspoken word, like a bitter seed, grew in her heart until it overshadowed her tenderer feelings toward Clay, until she wanted to hurt him as badly as she'd been hurt.

Call had seemed the perfect vehicle for revenge; she knew that he hated Clay with a passion she didn't understand. There was old bitterness between them, and she'd hoped to use it against Clay. But when he burst into the room, and she saw the naked pain on his face, the sense of triumph she felt had only lasted a moment before she realized that her revenge might cost her everything. There was one thing Clay Mosby didn't forgive, and that was betrayal. At that moment, when cold anger masked the pain in Clay's eyes, Florie knew that Clay felt she'd betrayed him, and that he was done with her.

She wasn't surprised when Call left only minutes behind Mosby. She'd pretty much figured that he wanted to hurt Clay, too. What surprised her was how dirty it made her feel that she and Call both used each other; she should have been used to that particular transaction.

Clay let go of her hair with a humorless laugh. "Well, he said, "at least you're honest about it." He went back to the table, brushing his fingers along the backs of the chairs as he went--to steady himself, Florie thought with a start--and sat down heavily, bracing one hand on the table and pressing the other to his side. He leaned back in the chair and picked up the glass, lifting it in a sardonic toast. "Here's to an honest whore," he said, sneering, and, lifting the glass to his lips, tossed the whiskey down.

Florie gasped. The word struck her squarely in the chest like a physical blow, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. Clay's eyes gleamed in the lamplight, and she knew that he'd used it purposely, aiming it at her like a fist. She sucked in air and lifted her chin. Well, she was used to blows, wasn't she? She'd show him that she could take it. She tossed her head, making her dark hair dance.

Clay poured himself another drink. "So," he said, propping his feet on the table, "How did you end up in bed with our Mr. Call? Did he offer you money? Or the chance to humiliate me? Or both?"

Florie didn't bother to answer that.

Clay shrugged and sipped his whiskey. "Or perhaps you were just an unwittin' tool in Newt Call's quest for vengeance, hmmm?" His tone suggested that this was the very last possibility he would consider.

"Is that what you think it was? Vengeance?" She spoke quietly, so as not to rile him any further. If she could get him talking, get his anger focused on Call instead of her...

"Oh, there is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Call was tryin' to get back at me. I even have my suspicions as to why." A shadow of old pain crossed Mosby's face, and he took another sip of his drink. "But at the moment I'm more interested in your motivations." He regarded her steadily, with an inscrutable expression that chilled her.

"Maybe my motivation was money," Florie said, lifting her chin. "He paid me well enough."

"Yes, I'm sure he did," Clay drawled. "But somehow I doubt that money was the only reason."

"Maybe I just wanted to see if he was better than you in bed." She said it defiantly, hoping to hit Mosby in his pride, but he only laughed.

"And was he?"

He didn't seem terribly interested in the answer, and Florie shrugged. In truth, they were both good lovers. Call didn't have Clay's polished technique, but he made up for the lack in enthusiasm. But Clay didn't need to know that.

"Well, now, I can't exactly remember." She gave him her sauciest grin and leaned on a chair, letting her shawl drop open to reveal her cleavage. "Why don't you refresh my memory?" she purred.

He went very still, the drink halfway to his mouth, and stared at her. His eyes blazed, and for a moment she was afraid he would reach across the table and strike her, but he never moved. Nervously, Florie straightened up and pulled the edges of the shawl to cover herself.

"Do you think for one minute," Clay said in a deadly, quiet voice, "that I would take Newt Call's leavin's?"

His scorn cut like a whip, laid her open, and she pressed her hand to her chest as though to an actual wound. She had known he wouldn't forgive her betrayal, but she hadn't expected that he would hate her for it. She gripped the chair again for support.

"No?" she said, her voice pitched low and laden with venom. "What I hear, you would have...once."

There was a sharp crack, and the glass in his hand shattered. Florie cried out as he opened his hand and let bloody shards fall on the table. Whiskey mixed with blood dripped from his fingers, and he took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, awkwardly, and wrapped it around his injured hand, never making a sound. She watched, horrified, as the pristine white linen began to turn red. When he finished, he looked up at her again. She flinched from what she saw in his eyes.

"If you were a man, I'd kill you for that," he said through his teeth. He reached inside his coat and pulled a crumpled paper from it. "Here," he said, tossing the paper onto the table. It fell into the spilled whiskey, and Florie saw that it was the stagecoach ticket she'd bought weeks before.

"I want you out of my town as soon as the next stage gets here." The words were flat and cold, and Florie shivered.

"Clay...," she began, but he waved her to silence.

"No," he said. "We're done. Take your ticket and get out of my sight." He pushed his chair back from the table and stood. "I want nothin' more to do with you." Picking up the bottle with his good hand, he tucked it into the crook of his elbow, blew out the lamp and turned away from her to make his way to the stairs.

She listened to his slow, careful footsteps until he closed the door to his room and then lifted the soggy ticket from the puddle of whiskey. Absently, she shook most of the moisture from it and tucked it inside her reticule.

"I should have known," she whispered to the dark saloon. "I should have known that I'd never be good enough for the likes of Clay Mosby." For a moment, sorrow welled up behind her eyes. Then she lifted her chin. Damned if she'd let him turn her into a quivering, blubbering heap. No man yet had managed that, and Clay Mosby wouldn't, either. She pressed her hand to her chest again, trying to push away the ache behind her breastbone. Clay had been wonderful, but it was over now. Everything good stopped eventually, and it wouldn't be the first time she'd had to start over. She could find some other rich, handsome gentleman to take care of her.

But damn, she was going to miss Clay.

"Goodbye," she whispered, and walked out of the Ambrosia without looking back.

* * * * * 

Clay watched from the balcony of the Ambrosia Club as all the girls from Twyla's crowded and jostled around Florie. She was taking the stage to Miles City or Helena or New York--or Africa, for all he knew. Or cared, he told himself, and ignored the twinge at the lie. _It doesn't matter where she goes_ , he thought, cradling his injured hand to his chest, _as long as it's away from here_. His mouth tightened. He ought to have expected it to end this way. What he hadn't expected was that it would hurt this much. But he was damned if he'd let her see it.

He had cared for her once, in his own fashion. Before she had betrayed him; before he had found her obviously enjoying herself in Newt Call's bed and any feeling he'd had for her had been changed beyond recognition in the flash-fire of pain and anger that swept over him in that moment.

For an instant, Call's voice came back to him: _She's more than just another whore to you, ain't she?_ The bastard had known, even then, that Florie meant something to him, and Mosby wouldn't put it past him to have planned to be discovered with Florie, just to get back at Clay.

Now Florie stood in the midst of the mob of women, calmly returning hugs and kisses and wiping a tear from Rae Ann's cheek as Luther Root muttered under his breath at all the fufaraw that was making him late. Just as though it had been her idea to leave town. Just as though their last interview had never happened.

He winced, remembering it. After what he'd seen in her room, he'd wanted to hurt her. Physical blows were out of the question, so he'd struck at her with his words, aiming them so that they struck at tender places. He'd hurt her, all right, but he hadn't realized that her pain would hurt him, too. _Damn_ , he thought. When had he come to care so much for her? He hadn't meant for it to go so far, had known better than to form an attachment, and he'd convinced himself that he'd succeeded in keeping his feelings for her in check. Attachments only led to heartache; he'd learned that the hard way, and he was a damned fool for letting her get under his skin. Well; done was done, and he'd be more careful next time. If there was a next time.

Florie finally finished her goodbyes, and stepped into the coach, but paused before ducking inside to look up at Clay. He returned her gaze, his eyes hard and his mouth drawn to a thin line under his moustache, and for a moment a look of sadness passed over her face. Then she tossed her head and laughed, holding onto the coach with one hand as she set the other, fisted, on her hip.

The girls turned to see where Florie was looking. They all giggled nervously when they saw him. Well, all but Selina, who gave him a real smile. He smiled back at her and tipped his hat to the others.

"Clay Mosby," Florie called, "I may just miss you, you dandified son of a bitch." There was more than a touch of defiance in her tone.

In spite of himself, Mosby laughed. "I see Miss Selina has been tellin' tales out of school," he replied, and was gratified to see the younger girl, standing at the back of the crowd, blush. He winked at her, then turned his attention back to Florie, his good humor disappearing. He put his hands on the balcony railing and leaned over it a little, ignoring the pain in his ribs. "However, I wouldn't go to the trouble, if I were you."

Florie's smile vanished. "Clay..."

"Luther, you'd better get goin'," Clay interrupted. "You don't want to be late, now, do you?" He pushed himself upright and took a long draw from his cigar, then blew the smoke out in a slow stream. Florie closed her eyes.

"Goodbye, Clay," she said sadly, and ducked back inside the coach.

Luther Root flipped the reins, and the team started forward, nearly throwing Florie out of the coach again, for she hadn't shut the door. She banged it closed hastily.

All of Twyla's girls, except Rae Ann, who couldn't, chorused their goodbyes and good wishes as they waved and followed the stage a little way down the street.

Clay sighed and ground out the stub of his cigar under his bootheel. The stage passed the edge of town, and the girls all turned and headed back to Twyla's. Selina, he noticed, hung back a little from the rest, and he sighed again. She didn't belong in a whorehouse, that was plain to see.

Clay smiled politely to the girls as they passed; they all giggled and whispered among themselves, and several of them smiled back up at him and began to primp. Clay's jaw tightened. He'd seen that same simpering expression on the mamas of the few marriageable girls in town as they pushed their daughters at him and he knew exactly what Twyla's girls were thinking; they were wondering which of them he was going to pick to take Florie's place.

They'd all known he was seeing Florie, of course. Even if he'd managed to keep his relationship with Florie a secret from the respectable part of Curtis Wells' population, there were few secrets that stayed secrets in a whorehouse. Well, they'd have to wait a long time for him to choose; he'd had a bellyful of whores' lies, and damned if he'd get involved with another one.

His eyes flicked to Selina. She alone did not seem to be contemplating how to get into his bed, and for a moment Clay's eyes narrowed in speculation. But he pushed the half-formed thought away. _Not goin' to be a next time_ , he thought. _I've had enough of caring to last me a lifetime._

He gave the girls the same manufactured smile he gave the pushy mamas, tipped his hat, and went inside.


End file.
